


Best-Laid Plans

by gogirl212



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adventure, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Mission Fic, Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:01:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28487238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogirl212/pseuds/gogirl212
Summary: When a mission goes wrong, sometimes you need a new plan.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 35





	Best-Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Happy New Year, friends! This one started as a whumptober prompt fill for "On the Run" and it just got away from me. A fluffy little adventure to welcome the new year. May it find you all in good health, good spirits, and in the company of good friends. And may all your best-laid plans of 2021 be as successful as the musketeers!

"How bad is it?" Aramis winced as Porothos finally got a good look at the wound.

"Bad."

"Danm," Aramis panted against the pain, struggling not to cry out.

"I can't . . . " Porthos huffed as he poked at Aramis's side, "This needs surgery," he finally said. The big man started rummaging in Aramis's bag.

"Porthos, you're not... we don't have time.".

"I'm not," Porthos produced a roll of bandages from the bag.

"That's not going to help," Aramis had twisted to get a look at it himself. It was bad.

"It'll hold you together long enough to ride out of here," Porthos pressed the shredded remains of Aramis's shirt against the long gash in the marksman's side. Aramis squirmed as Porthos pulled him forward so he could quickly wind the long bandage around Aramis's torso.

"Stop, you need to take this," Aramis grimaced as he leaned over to get at the pocket of his jacket. He groaned from the stretch and from Porthos manhandling the bandage around him but he needed to get it. "Here, here!" he forced out, unable to right himself from where he was now half sprawled on his side.

"Hang on," Porthos tied off the bandage and hauled Aramis back to a sitting position then grabbed the long leather coat and draped it over Aramis's shoulders.

"Take it," Aramis insisted, shoving a velvet bag into the big man's palm, "It's the proof the King needs. Letters in Gaston's hand and a copy of the King's seal."

Porthos rolled his eyes but took the bag, slipping it into his doublet. Rising, he pulled Aramis to his feet. The marksman swayed but stayed standing while Porthos shoved Aramis's arms through his sleeves.

"How the hell did this happen?" Porthos asked as he did up Aramis's buckles.

"Her husband came home," Aramis shrugged.

"Seriously?" Porthos flashed Aramis a look bordering between incredulity and irritation.

"It's not what you think."

"It doesn't matter what I think," Porthos started next on Aramis's sash, winding it over the jacket and the wound beneath. Aramis gasped and reached to steady himself on Porthos's shoulder, "With you, it's always a husband. You attract husbands," Porthos ignored Aramis's growing discomfort as he tightened the sash and tied it off.

Next, he got Aramis's sword belt over the sash and cinched that tightly around his waist. Aramis just about swooned into his arms.

"Alright, I got ya," Porthos said, getting Aramis's arm over his shoulder and taking most of the marksman's weight. Balancing Aramis he stooped to pick up the blue cloak discarded on the ground. "C'mon," Porthos said, leading him from the clearing.

"I can hold them off," Aramis said, pointing to a sheltered spot just beyond the horses, "Leave me all the pistols."

Porthos stopped at his horse, pulling his arquebus from the saddle holster. Aramis leaned heavily against the great beast as Porthos checked and primed the weapon. The marksman was fading. He knew his wound was bad. Porthos pulled powder and musket balls from the satchel and lengthened the stirrup.

"Let's go," Porthos said, but instead of leading Aramis to the spot in the trees, the marksman found himself lifted up over the back of Porthos's horse. He had no choice but to seat himself in the saddle lest he get pitched over the other side.

"What are you doing?" Aramis leaned heavily over the pommel of the saddle to keep himself upright, "I can't ride like this."

"I know," Porthos agreed.

"You have to get the seal to the King," Porthos took Aramis's hat from his head, concern flickering in his eyes. He pulled the bandana from his head and poured water from his canteen over the cloth, "We don't have time…" Aramis mumbled.

"I know," Porthos said, wiping down the marksman's face with the cool water.

It was a surprisingly gentle touch considering how the big musketeer had been manhandling him up until this point. Aramis steadied his breathing against the pain, letting the water as much as the gesture refresh him. The moment didn't last long.

Aramis grabbed Porthos's wrist. "You have to go."

Porthos met his gaze but his eyes revealed nothing beyond stoic determination. They'd faced moments like this before where death breathed down their necks and one of them had to make a terrible choice.

"I know," Porthos said, breaking eye contact with Aramis to look back toward the forest where Aramis had come from.

Gaston's men had to be close by now and Porthos would do his duty no matter how hard it was on him. Aramis couldn't help but smile as he looked at his friend. So many close calls between them.

"Can you hang on?" Porthos asked, returning his attention to Aramis.

"Yes, but…" Aramis trailed off as Porthos pulled Aramis's blue cloak over his own shoulders and replaced his hat with Aramis's. As Porthos crushed his hat onto Aramis's head it finally dawned on the marksman what Porthos was up to.

"Porthos, no," Aramis struggled to push himself from the horse, "you need to get the seal…"

"That's what I'm doin'. Now shut up," Porthos said pulling the pouch from beneath his coat and shoving it in one of the saddlebags, "They are looking for one musketeer - you. And they're gonna find 'im. Get the seal to Athos."

"You can't" Aramis breathed, "There's five of them."

"Five?" Porthos pursed his lips as he considered the odds and gave a little shrug, "Well, if they catch me, they ain't gonna kill me," he decided, adjusting the stirrups on his horse for Aramis's legs, "They want that seal back and they won't kill me until they find it."

"This is madness," Aramis protested.

"You got a better idea?" Porthos asked, "Cause you trying to shoot straight to keep my path clear is not gonna work. I'll lead 'em off, you get the seal to Athos and complete the mission."

Aramis's mind raced for another answer but in his heart, he knew Porthos was right. He had little strength left and he would be no real deterrent to Gaston's men. He would fail and they would both die.

"This is a stupid plan," Aramis hated it in fact.

I know," Porthos adjusted his weapons on his belt, "If I'm not back at camp by tomorrow morning, I'm expectin' ya to come get me." Porthos extended his arm to Aramis and the marksman clasped it. They would part as soldiers and brothers.

"Don't get killed," the comment was cheeky but Aramis's heart was heavy as stone.

"Don't fall off the horse," Porthos took up the reins and wrapped them in Aramis's hands. "One for All," Porthos said with a ferocious grin. The big man did love a good fight.

Before Aramis could reply there was a loud thwack on the rump of the horse and Porthos's mount took off like a shot, Aramis clinging to the saddle and doing everything he could to obey Porthos's last command. He had to get the seal to Athos or this would all be for nothing.

xxxMMMMxxx

Porthos spared a moment to watch Aramis ride off through the trees. At least he was going in the right direction. Porthos wasn't sure how long Aramis could stay lucid enough to keep the horse heading toward Vouzier but it didn't matter. As long as Porthos could lead Gaston's men the other direction, Aramis would be safe and the seal secure. Porthos was confident that even if Aramis did fall, he'd be discovered by some dairymaid and nursed back to health. Hopefully, she would not also come with an angry husband.

Aramis crested a ridge and then Porthos lost sight of him as he descended down the other side. That was the end of any sentimentality. Porthos adjusted the saddle and stirrups on Aramis's mount before leveraging himself onto the white mare. She danced under the added weight but settled down as soon as Porthos took her under a firm hand. She was tired, but Porthos knew she still had a lot left in her. He flicked the rein across her neck and sent her doubling back the direction Aramis had originally come from.

Porthos had to time it just right for the men hunting Aramis to see him and give chase but not cut it so closely that they caught up to him. The region they were in was hilly and if he followed the forest track back a short way he'd come upon a rise that should give him both a good vantage point for quite a distance but also leave him in a position to be seen by the men.

What he didn't count on was that Gaston's men had thought of the same thing. The horse took a rise up the path and there, on the next ridge, sat a handful of men. They saw him and shouted, digging their heels into their mounts and rushing down the hill. Porthos wheeled Aramis's horse but there was nowhere to go except back the way he came, which would lead them right to Aramis. His hesitation cost him as Gaston's men were close enough to open fire. As he urged the horse back into the brush a searing pain lanced his shoulder. One of the shots had found its mark. Porthos let out a guttural howl but managed to stay on his horse.

He pushed the beast to keep pace, but the brambles and low branches slowed their progress. Still, it would be just as difficult for the men following him. Porthos pulled Aramis's hat low to protect his eyes and face and barrelled forward, man and horse muscling through thickets where nothing larger than a deer probably passed. Porthos could hear the men crashing through the forest behind him. He knew his lead wasn't long enough and the pain throbbing in his shoulder wasn't helping his confidence.

Man and horse broke through the brush into a stretch of new forest, birch trees mostly springing tall into the sky. There was no cover in the birches, but Porthos could make some good speed and counted on the quality of the Musketeers' mounts to put more distance between him and his pursuers. He kicked up the mare and she took off through the forest, weaving between the trees like she rode here every day.

Porthos heard a distant shout behind him and knew Gaston's men had caught sight of him. He spared a quick backward glance but could see nothing. More than likely he was just a blur of blue cloak to them. If he didn't want to be followed, he would have ditched the cloak in the brush but every minute they chased him was two gained for Aramis heading in the opposite direction.

They broke from the birch forest into open fields. Porthos reined up, looking for a direction. He only had a moment to choose - ride off straight through the fields where he had the better horse but was easier to spot or continue toward a small farmstead he could see to his left where there was likely a road nearby. To the right, there were more trees and more opportunities for cover. The horse could not keep up this pace for much longer. His mind sorted through the options and settled on a plan just as he heard a shout from behind him. He spurred the horse forward toward the woods.

The horse ran her heart out for him, hooves flying over the open field, but by the time they reached the next stretch of forest, she was starting to flag. Porthos moved into the edge of the forest, this one older and again thick with briars. He picked his way more carefully, finding a copse of trees that shielded him from sight. Gaston's men had likely seen him make toward the forest but would not know exactly where he had entered.

Porthos dismounted and stripped the weapons and ammunition from the horse. He fastened Aramis's hat to her side and draped the blue cloak over her back, attaching it to the pommel. She had served him well, but she had one more job to do. Porthos led her back to the edge of the forest. He loosened her bit and let her reins loop long over her back. His eyes scanned the field and in a moment he saw a group of riders, black clothes stark against the golden grains and the setting sun. The timing could not have been more perfect. He gave a whoop and slapped the horse hard. She took off like an arrow heading back into the field, the blue cloak fluttering like a beacon behind her. There was a distant shout and the men in the field wheeled toward the horse. The chase was on.

Porthos didn't wait. He sank back into the forest, armed to the teeth but bleeding profusely.

He pushed into the brush, scrambled into steep ditches, and generally took the most difficult route he could find knowing that the men following would have no option but to abandon their horses to pursue him. He hoped that would thin them out. He had better odds if they split up. It was a good strategy, and there was a decent chance he could take them all out if it wasn't for the fact that his shoulder was on fire.

Porthos didn't get as far into the forest as he would have liked before he heard the distant shouting. They must have caught the riderless horse and doubled back to find his trail back into the forest. He probably had only a few minutes before they found him considering his wound kept him from making better progress. He looked around for a way to even the numbers.

He was currently in a bit of a gully, a good place to pick off his pursuers if he could get good cover on higher ground. He scanned the ridge and found a small outcropping of rock protruding from a thicket. It wasn't the best but it would do. Porthos started climbing, shoulder throbbing with every move while thorns and stickers raked his face and hands. He deeply regretted the sacrifice of his hat and that he hadn't taken a moment to put his gloves back on after he had gotten Aramis patched up. The smallest choices sometimes had the biggest consequences.

By the time he got to the outcropping, his hands were stinging and his palms slick with blood. At least it would not be easy for them to come up here after him. Pothos got himself behind the rock and nature gifted him with a hollowed-out depression in the stone that formed a bit of a natural bowl. He would be fairly hidden from sight and have good cover for return fire. The path up to him would be slow - he could take them out as they climbed.

It was getting harder to manage the pain from his shoulder but there was little Porthos could do about it. He slipped his hand under his doublet to feel it and his hand came back drenched in blood. He would have to deal with this soon.

He wiped his bloody hands on his pants - it would be no good to have his weapons slip from his grasp in the middle of a fight. The noise of the approaching men grew closer. It was not hard for them to figure out where he had gone, but it was a hell of a pathway to follow him. If they were just hired mercenaries they would probably have given up on him by now but Porthos knew Aramis had to get into Gaston's inner circle to have pulled off the theft of the seal - those would be loyalists to the usurper that were chasing Porthos now. Among them, one very angry husband. Aramis never made things easy.

But Porthos had never expected anything in his life to be easy. Easy growing up in the Court of Miracles meant a day with food in your belly and a dry place to sleep. The Infantry wasn't easy on any soldier but Porthos had boots on his feet and a weapon in his hand and he knew if he just kept doing his job no matter what soldiering threw at him it was easier than where he'd been. The Musketeers were a new kind of hard. Treville was exacting, horses were terrifying and the men treated him worse than any of the officers had in his first unit - until he laid them all in the dust of the courtyard with his big fists. He could outfight any of them in a close brawl, and that earned him not just stability, but a place at a table among comrades who wanted nothing but loyalty from him. That was easy. The rest of it, that was just life.

Porthos pulled his pistols and the arquebus from his bandolier and belts. He primed the pans and lit the match cord on the long gun. He had five shots total and they would have to be good. He was far from the best marksman in their ranks but Porthos was still a musketeer. He could shoot at a target downhill from him trying to climb through a bramble patch.

His pursuers broke from the trees and headed into the gully. Porthos picked off the first two before they even started the climb up to him. They returned fire, but Porthos hunkered down behind the rocks, managing to reload one of the pistols before the shots from below stopped, He peeked out from his cover and readied the arquebus. He got the third man as he was struggling to get up the ridge. Porthos had not made it easy.

The other two men, realizing they had poor position hunkered down and reloaded - a volley of musket balls chipping at the rock. Porthos was glad it was big enough to get fully behind - those men were good shots. There was some scrambling below him, but when Porthos raised his head to look, another round had him cowering down again. They were covering each other to get up the ridge - and they'd split up.

Porthos took his last two loaded pistols and rolled onto his stomach. He forced himself to crawl closer to the edge of the outcropping, staying as close to the ground as he could. It was agony to drag himself and the guns with his wounded shoulder but Porthos just pushed through the pain and kept going. He had no choice. He could fight one of them maybe if they got up here, but not two.

He paused to listen, hearing the scrabbling of one of the men nearby on his left. He shifted in that direction and readied the pistols. Timing would be everything.

The slide of falling rocks and the huffing and heavy breathing got closer. The man let out a sharp curse, probably as more of the same brambles Porthos had pushed through fought back against another invader. Porthos decided he was close enough.

With a roar half born of pain, Porthos pushed himself up to his feet, coming face to face with the man cresting the ridge. Porthos fired, hitting the man in the chest and sending him tumbling backwards down the ridge. That left just one more. The crunch of a boot on the loose gravel behind him had him spinning fist already cocked for a mighty blow.

His attacker had the advantage though, and dodge the blow while slamming him hard in the gut. Porthos doubled over, winded but not finished. He ran into the attacker, getting his arms around him and using his weight and force to drive him to the ground. Being on the ground under Porthos was not a position most men recovered from. Porthos pummeled him, breaking the man's nose before he finally stopped thrashing. Passed out or dead, Porthos did not care. The fight was over.

Exhausted, Porthos pushed himself off the inert body below him and half rolled to lean against the rock that had given him shelter earlier. His shoulder throbbed with pain and his arm felt like lead. Blood ran down his sleeve and dripped from his fingers. He needed to dress the wound but had no strength left to get his doublet off. He fished for his knife thinking it might be easier to just cut the sleeve. He got it from his belt but his hand trembled. A shadow passed between him and the sun and Porthos raised his head. On the high ground above him, three men sat on horses, pistols trained at him.

Aramis had been wrong; there were 8 of them.

xxxMMMMxxx

It was pain that pulled Porthos out of the blackness of unconsciousness. Pain and thirst. He moaned and found something shoved in his mouth, his tongue dry against the coarse cloth. His entire body ached and he found he was bound hand to foot, laying on his side. His leather coat was gone and his bloodsoaked shirt clung to him, wet and chill in the cold night air. His shoulder throbbed.

Porthos cracked open his eyes to find he was some distance from a campfire, five men circled it, arguing about something. He himself was laying in leaves and dirt, the damp mold of the forest floor assaulting his nose and forcing a choking cough into the cloth gag bound tightly through his mouth. He twisted his head enough to see his shoulder had been bandaged. Apparently, his captors didn't want him dead just yet - so at least that part of the plan was working. But that was about all he had. Trussed up like a goose ready for the spit, Porthos was going to have to rely on them wanting the seal more than wanting him dead to get out of this one.

He turned his attention to the men at the campfire, focusing on their words to prevent himself from focusing on his dry mouth. The thirst was going to overtake the pain soon.

"He had to have hidden it somewhere," one of them was saying, "That's why he doesn't have it."

"I told you that he is not the man!" this one was shouting, clearly frustrated.

"Marcus said there was only one musketeer in the tavern," someone else countered, "He followed him to the castle and the King's reception." Porthos made note of the term "King" - they were referring to Gaston, the usurper, not Louis. They were not likely to show a Musketeer any mercy - in fact, sending him back to Louis in pieces was more likely. Porthos tried to shift in his bonds, he needed to get out of here. Unfortunately, the knots were secure.

"The only time Marcus said he lost sight of him, Bertrand, was when he was in your bedroom," the man continued, "So unless your wife is bedding the entire regiment, this is the man." The others laughed but one pushed himself up to his feet. Shouting over them - Bertrand, Porthos assumed.

"I am telling you, I saw him in our rooms and that is not the man!" Bertrand, threw the bottle of wine to the ground, the glass shattering against one of the stones ringing the fire. He pulled a dagger, it gleamed in the firelight.

"I will get the truth from him," Bertrand growled, pushing sloppily through the ring of men and staggering toward Porthos. He was clearly intoxicated. Two others rose and quickly followed. For his part, Porthos squeezed his eyes shut and played dead. Hopefully, someone would intercede before Bertrand had a chance to use that knife. Porthos was tired and didn't need any more torture than the pain and thirst he was already experiencing.

"Bertrand, stop!" that sounded like an order, from someone used to being in authority, "Do not touch him."

"We will not find the seal because this man did not take it. We are wasting precious time."

"He has hidden it somewhere," a calm voice came from behind Porthos, "Do not worry."

"Ask him, then!" Bertrand huffed, "I tell you it is not him!"

"Once he wakes, we will question him," the leader countered.

Bertrand cursed, then using his boot on Porthos's wounded shoulder, he pushed him onto his back. Porthos writhed and moaned into the gag, the pain overwhelming. "Look, he's awake."

The rope tethering his hands to his feet was cut and Porthos's limbs were released from their cramped position. It was a relief but also brought renewed pain. Porthos was grateful he could straighten out his legs and decided he was now in a better situation than when he'd woken up. It would be easier to escape - if he lived through what was coming next to get the chance. Bertrand seemed ready to kill him on the spot.

Someone hauled him up to his feet. He staggered and they caught him by the arms as they cut the ropes from around his ankles. His legs wouldn't work right and they half-dragged him to the campfire. He was pushed onto his knees and a hand grabbed his hair and hauled his head up.

Bertrand stared down at him, murder in his eyes. He pressed the knife to Porthos's throat.

"Where is it?" he demanded. Porthos blinked up at him unable to speak with the gag still in his mouth.

"Get that off of him," Bertrand demanded. Someone complied and the gag fell away, leaving Porthos to heave in air and cough. He made a show of it but remained conscious of the knife unless his theatrics had him slit his own throat. But someone got the message, a canteen of water was upended over his head. Not much of it got down his parched throat, but the cold water went a long way to revive him. Porthos was far from defenseless now that the gag was out of his mouth.

"Tell me where the seal is," Bertrand said with a yank of his hair. Porthos cleared his throat and choked out some hoarse and unintelligible words. Bertrand rolled his eyes.

"Here," another man approached with a flask, "This time try getting it in his mouth," he handed the bottle over and now wine was poured into Porthos's mouth with a little more precision. Porthos gathered his thoughts as he drank.

"Enough," Bertrand swatted the hand with the flask away, "Now where is it?"

"Where's what?" Porthos finally replied. Bertand slapped him hard.

"The seal?" Bertrand said, "You don't have it because you never did. The other musketeer has it."

"What other musketeer?" Porthos said blinking in false confusion.

"Liar!" Porthos felt the knife bite at his throat, "Who defiled my wife?"

"Musketeers are men of honor, so I assure you," Porthos said calmly, "that any defiling was mutual."

That pushed Bertrand over the edge but quickly his companions were on him, pulling him off of Porthos. The big musketeer felt the tickle of blood trickle on his neck. He was playing a dangerous game, and losing would carry the ultimate price.

"I know it was not you!" Bertrand sputtered and struggled against his comrades, "I saw him leap from the window! He was not a swarthy, dark-skinned dog like you!" Porthos exhaled, he had known that was coming - and it was the opening he was looking for.

"We all look the same in the dark," Porthos countered, "But I am sure your wife will be able to describe other features. Ask her who her Musketeer love is," Porthos challenged. It was a big risk, but the only ploy he had. Bertrand roared, but the man Porthos thought to be the leader stepped forward.

"Can't you see he is just goading you?" the leader chided, "He has hidden the seal and now tries to save his own skin by delaying telling us where it is."

"But where then is it?" the calm-voiced many stepped up, "We searched him, his horse, the area where we captured him. Where can he have hidden while on the run from us?"

"He could have thrown it from him while he fled?" someone suggested.

"No," the calm man replied, "The seal is useless to them if lost. Either he has it hidden or Bertrand is right - there is another man and we have wasted time with this one."

"Which is it, Musketeer?" the leader sneered, "I think you had best produce the seal, or we will let Bertrand here slice you from chin to groin. How would that be?"

"Anything to put an end to your arguing," Porthos sounded bored. The leader slammed a fist into the side of Porthos's head and the big musketeer fell to the ground, his ears ringing and pain shooting up his shoulder. He had no time to catch his breath, as hand pulled him back onto his knees again.

"The seal?" the leader said again.

"Perhaps you'd best ask Madame what nook or cranny it is hidden in?" Porthos smiled smugly. Bertrand let out a roar and broke free of the men holding him, slamming into Porthos and knocking them both to the ground. Porthos curled in on himself, trying to protect his face from the blows raining down from the enraged man, although a fist caught him in the shoulder and he about passed out from the agony of it. Finally they pried the man off of him, but left Porthos to roll clumsily in the dirt, unable to right himself.

"Just kill him! He does not have it!" Bertrand shouted.

"Enough!" the leader's voice cut through the arguing, "Until we know for sure where it is, we can't kill him. Bertrand," the leader stepped to the angry man, "You are sure this was not the man with your wife?"

"Antoine, I am sure," Bertrand snarled. The leader sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Porthos couldn't help but think of Athos - the gesture was so familiar. He'd frustrated Athos enough to recognize it. Perhaps all Lieutenants learned it.

"All right, we are getting nowhere. Francois - ride back with Bertrand. Get Marcos and bring him back here. We need to know if we have the right man or if we should be looking elsewhere."

"But it's dark - " one of the men started to protest.

"It's a full moon and the road is right here," the leader waved off the excuse, "You will have plenty of light. Now go!" The two men started picking up their gear, "Satisfied?" the leader asked Bertrand. The man nodded, "Good."

"Tie him up," the leader ordered and Porthos was dragged back to where he had been earlier. They took up the length of rope they had cut from his feet and re-tied his ankles, before shoving him hard to the ground. They stuffed the filthy rag back into his mouth and with a few kicks and curses at the musketeer dog, left him to lie again in the leaves and dirt while they resumed their supper, and their wine at the campfire.

Porthos ached, his shoulder throbbed, and his ears were still ringing but he had done better than planned. He had bought time for Aramis by convincing them to get confirmation about which Musketeer they had, but more than that, he'd picked up a shard of the broken bottle when he'd gotten Bertrand to fly at him. He had to get the ropes off but his head was swimming now and the pain from his abuse at the hands of Bertrand was now rivaling that of his shoulder. But he had to get free.

Stealing himself against the blossoming pain, he started sawing at the ropes - hoping he could break free before Marcus showed up at camp to denounce him. Hoping he would not pass out from the pain. Hoping he could get to one of their horses before they got to him. But mostly hoping that Aramis had gotten to safety because it was likely that in spite of all Porthos had done, odds were they would be looking for him soon.

xxxMMMMxxx

The dawn was cold and clear, the sun low still but enough to rouse Porthos. He was confused at first but then the events of the past day drifted back slowly. His shoulder throbbed, his hands were cut from the many times the glass had slipped from his hands while trying to break his bonds, his throat ached for water. He was stiff and cramped from being so long in the same position.

But he was free.

He had gotten through the ropes, although it had cost him much in blood and pain. The men at the campfire had passed out from drink waiting for Marcus to show up. Riding in the middle of the night was never a good idea, despite the full moon. But it was also what Porthos did. He thought about stealing a weapon, but couldn't risk a fight. Getting to the horses was just luck - had they been tied at the other side of the camp, he could not have risked it. Even better luck - they had Aramis's horse with them. Not surprising that they would not let the Freisan go, she alone would be worth the time and effort in tracking him. He gave her a low whistle she was trained to recognize, and she picked up her ears and shifted toward him. The other horses ignored her, she wasn't nervous so they weren't. That was about the only horse lore Porthos knew, but it served him well often.

Porthos untied her and led her cautiously through the brush before getting a foot into the stirrup and slinging his leg over her back. He stifled a cry as everything hurt, but after that, it was manageable. He headed her in the direction the others had gone, for that must be the road they planned to follow. The mare mostly picked her own way which was probably sensible given that Porthos could barely see given the swelling on his face from the beating he had taken. They broke from the forest and onto a wide dirt track.

Porthos wasn't sure which way to go. He looked up to the sky, wishing for the sun instead of the moon. The stars, though beautiful, were a map he could not read. No one had taught him. Except for D'Artagnan.* He scanned his eyes across the sky until he found the one shape he could recognize - the big bear. He followed the line of stars in the tail to the next bright star - that was Polaris, the north star. He turned the horse onto the road and hoped it would just keep heading north, toward Vouzier where the others were camped and hopefully, where Aramis had found his way.

Porthos did not know how far he had ridden in the night. The horse just kept to the road until at some point he'd fallen asleep and she decided she was done. He was not certain how he'd ended up in the ditch but the horse had not abandoned him. She was eating grass a short distance away.

As Porthos struggled to his feet, he considered sending her back down the road and sinking into the forest to avoid his pursuers. But he quickly dismissed the idea, he was physically spent. He would go no further on his own, he needed that horse, even if she was a beacon to the men looking for him. He had no moisture in his mouth to whistle, but he clucked at her as he approached and she seemed content enough to let him take the reins. It was much harder to get into the saddle this time, and the best he could do was direct her to the road and lean over her neck as she continued on her way.

Porthos couldn't decide if he was just lucky they hadn't found him yet, or if he was an idiot leading them straight to the musketeer camp. If Aramis had made it there, Athos and D'Artagnan would be more than enough to handle whoever was chasing Porthos. But if Aramis hadn't, they would be looking for them - hopefully on this road. Whatever the case, Porthos put the odds in the Musketeer's favor - as long as he could find them first.

The sun climbed higher and the mare walked on with Porthos doing little more than cling to her back. He drifted in and out of consciousness, getting pulled back to the here and now by the nearly constant ache in his shoulder. His hands were sticky, blood dripped from his sleeve again. The men who captured him had stopped the bleeding but not treated the wound. The blood loss was stealing his strength. The musket ball was still in his shoulder. When he did find Aramis, the marksman was not going to be happy about this state of affairs.

Porthos couldn't help but laugh thinking about Aramis, wounded and bleeding as badly as he was now, insisting that he would hold off the men while Porthos rode off with the seal. Yet he'd chastise Porthos as soon as he saw him for the condition he was in. That man was an enigma at the best of times.

He was thinking of Aramis and their unlikely friendship when the spire of Vouzier rose up from the horizon. A welcome sight that Porthos had not sure he would see. He smiled and with hope, he found renewed energy. The camp was not far, just down a track from the side of the road a short way from here. Porthos pushed himself up in the saddle and took up the reigns to give the mare a kick to pick up her step.

The trot was a mistake and he found himself listing to the side and trying to keep himself seated. Confused, the mare danced to the left, spinning Porthos around - to see a cloud of rising dust on the road. That would be riders, and they were coming fast enough to kick up a lot of dirt. Porthos steadied the horse beneath him and dug his heels into her sides. The mare took off and Porthos leaned over her neck and urged her on. Now it was a race.

Porthos pulled up on the reins as soon as he saw the mile marker for Vouzier. The track was just past it. He lost a little time in finding it, enough to hear the thundering hoofbeats coming up on him. He turned the horse onto the track and kicked her hard. She didn't want to run down this path but Porthos gave her no choice. The camp would be in the clearing just ahead.

Porthos and the horse crashed through the trees to find themselves facing down the barrels of four drawn pistols. Porthos about slid off the horse as the others ran to him. Athos and D'Artagnan kept him from falling as they caught him up under the arms.

"They're right behind me," Porthos gasped, "The seal . . . Aramis . . ." he trailed off, looking desperately at Athos.

"Both are here," Athos said, "Though Aramis looks little better than you do." The musketeer in question stumbled into Porthos's line of sight, shirtless and bandaged heavily around his torso. Athos would have stitched the wound but Aramis was badly injured. Still, he held his arquebus in his hand as he leaned against a tree for support.

"What the hell happened to you?" Aramis started in, "Did you fight them off with your face?" Porthos couldn't help it, he laughed.

"Gentlemen," D'Artagnan interjected, "In about three minutes were are going to have company and we need a plan."

"Take the seal and ride," Aramis said as he raised the gun, "I'll hold them off . . ."

"That was a terrible plan yesterday and it's still a terrible plan," Porthos cut him off as D'Artagnan and Athos deposited him by the marksman.

"How many are there?" D'Artagnan was checking the primes on his pistols while Athos had his eyes trained on the track.

"Four at least," Porthos said, "More if Aramis's current disgruntled husband and his friends came back."

"Actually, that's not a bad plan. Here," Athos handed Porthos his two pistols, "Hold them off." Before Porthos could speak Athos was grabbing the horses. "D'Artagnan, with me!" he shouted. The young musketeer gave them a wicked smile and grabbed Aramis's mare, following Athos into the woods.

"What the hell are they doing?" Porthos finally sputtered out.

"Trusting us to do our part," Aramis said, leaning back against a tree to keep himself upright. Porthos staggered backward and slipped to the ground, his back against the same tree - or maybe it was Aramis's leg. He didn't know. He didn't care.

"This is idiocy," Porthos said.

"Sure," Aramis smiled, "but it's what we specialize in." Porthos rolled his eyes, but of course, Aramis was right. He didn't have time to answer though, because five men broke through the clearing and the shooting started.

Porthos and Aramis did do their part, each taking down one man. Porthos missed his second shot, but that was Aramis's fault for falling on top of him. They scrambled to get to cover, but there was little need to worry. Athos and D'Artagnan descended from the branches above like warrior angels dropped into battle. The fight was done before it started and even Porthos had to agree it had been a good plan.

xxxMMMMxxx

"Here, let me help you with that" Aramis's voice was soft, tired. Still, a cup was pushed into Porthos's hands.

"Who's helping you?" Porthos said as he got the cup to his lips. His right arm was bandaged and in a sling and his eye was still swollen shut. He turned his head to find Aramis sitting in a chair by his bedside.

"I've been left here with all we need in reach," he said, gesturing at the small table crowded with wine, food, and two pistols.

"Why are you in a chair and I'm still in bed?" Porthos grumbled. His eyes felt sticky, his throat raw.

"Both of us may be injured," Aramis cut some slices from an apple in his food stores, "But only one of us took ill after. How are you feeling?"

That was a good question. Porthos took stock. His arm was sore but not unbearably. He felt weak, tired, but not badly. His face itched from the bruising. But he was in a bed, presumably at an inn, with food and drink and Aramis left to tend to him.

"All in all, I'm feeling alright," Porthos said.

"You know, that was lunacy having those men chase you," Aramis said, offering Porthos a piece of the apple.

"Yer complainin' about that still?" Porthos sighed. "I guess yer supposed to be the noble one and do all the dyin' and sacrifcin' and I just let you?"

"Well, no . . . it's not like that."

"Yeah, then what is it?" Porthos took another piece of apple. He was really hungry now that he thought about it, "Cause when you come up with a plan you have no problem bein' in the middle of it."

"That's exactly what you did, running off dressed as me to lead them off," Aramis protested, "How is that any different?"

"That's my point, Aramis," Porthos grabbed the rest of the apple and took a big bite. That was more like it. Aramis rolled his eyes and started slicing cheese. Which was good because that's what Porthos wanted next. "Let's face it, none of us is gonna do something to endanger anyone else. If there's gonna be a sacrifice, we're all ready to make it."

"Is that wrong?" Aramis challenged.

"No," Porthos shook his head, "It's suicidal sure, but it's who we are, Aramis."

"So, your point?"

"Nothing. Just stop clucking at me and pass the wine," Porthos smiled, "We got to keep our strength up if we are going to survive the next stupid plan someone has."

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: *See my fic Written in the Stars for when D'Artagnan taught Porthos about constellations.


End file.
